Ruled paper bleeding ink scribbles shrieking open lacerations into blue and red arteries. Veins pulsating curiosity but cornered by anxiety assuming that the dialect I use to write is ill with idiocracy. “Idiot” screamed in bold letters from a fountain pen, permanent pollution of this ocean that I’m drowning in. Scissor-fanged sharks circle ‘round the toxicity, chew my paper submarine, a vessel crushed beneath the sea. Vessels to my heart julienned, cut open during surgery. They couldn’t pull me from the deep in time before the flatline beep.
Hello, Poetry. I see the fangs between your lines snap shut to disguise wrinkles revealing traumatic speeches scribbled without care yet shouted so scared. Words scarred and slashed with swords of insecurity, blue and red bars slice the tale you tried to save for me, bleeding out stories through the tears in these ruled pages, pour them in the cups of the audience so they relate with. I take just one sip. I’m already drunk, cut out my favorite lines, pasting phrases to my life, ******* away my pain, rejected in recycling, cycling confessions, crying on my recollections, sponge away my sorrow tears and squeeze it on the stages. Claps of the people start evaporation and the sensation serves me confidence to condensate the ink off my dissertation. Final salutation, spotlights off and goodbye, Poetry.
My life, a printed two-sided page, one side sunrise, turn it over and you see the bipolar hidden underneath my sleeves: self-harm. Cuts coagulate into chaos and blood crumbles into cookie crumbs all over the bathroom floor, a sugar rush surging me awake towards my world beyond reality until I bleed to death, it’s sunrise again. I close my shutters and shudder at the sight of outside. The heat of the sunlight feels too real. It burns my paper skin.
A writing activity I did where we wrote random words and had to incorporate as many of the words as possible into a poem.
I can’t sleep because the rain is knocking on my door again. I’m knocking on your door again, shivering in the cold and crying at your doorstep. My tears are raindrops and you can’t sleep because the rain is knocking on your door again. I can’t sleep because the moonlight is shining on me again. I’m shining on you again, drowning in the rain and gazing through your window, My eyes are moonlight and you can’t sleep because the moonlight is shining on you again. I can’t sleep because the knife is slicing my heart again. I’m slicing your heart again, cutting in the bathroom and thinking of your bedroom. My knife is me and you can’t sleep because the knife is slicing your heart again.
She says we’re ready to take it to the next level. A life after the one we have now. She says she gets lonelier every day that I walk into my room and look at her. Sometimes it’s a quick, fearful glance. As if she reminded me of when my goldfish died, parents divorced, girlfriend broke up with me, or whatever it was that made her climb the rafters a little while ago. Sometimes it’s a long, pondering gaze. Maybe today is the day? Or will tomorrow be better? She says she lusts for the texture of the skin on my neck, wants to feel me in her arms, grasp me like there’s no tomorrow. She says she enjoys the lengthy midnight talks we have when I sit down beside her, always in the same old wooden chair. She says my friends and family don’t like her. Whenever I mention her at dinner, their faces always become more pale and thinner. She says she feels bad when I cry, claiming she can make all my problems vanish forever, and all I have to do is let her wrap her arms around me and hangout with me for a minute or an hour. I tell her I miss the feel of her around my throat. So I look straight through her and say: Today is the day, my friend.
I am a boy, but I wear a bow on my head. It flows down my shoulders. I pretend that it’s my hair. Red hair that shimmers gold in the sunlight, highlights for society to see, see a woman trapped in a man’s body. Or is it a man trapped in a woman’s body? My body is all that shows beauty, but my face is too ****. I wrap it in red ribbon, a mummy cursed by her own- his own self image. Image of red thread dripping down my wrists. Wrists tied too tightly to a knife wrapped in red, so I cut them. Red hair all over the bathroom floor forming roses next to my deathbed. Hung above my bed, the threads of red hung tightly around my neck, draped down from the bow I wear at the top of my head.
Custody, first a checkerboard of red and white squares trapped between thick black bars. Days of the week, prisons, and I was wrongly convicted. My fingers reach for help through my metal cage, yet only receive paper cuts on the corners of divorce letters. Letters drowned in blood bleed off the page and stain my Saturdays and Sundays. Custody, now neatly separated into red and white columns, walls dividing weeks and weekends. National borders barricade one house from the other. Two countries clash in a war waged with two atomic blasts burning my culture into ash white as paper. Custody, the absence of red and the erasure of my father from the calendar taped to my mother’s refrigerator, and I’m frozen in place. Custody, a vast snow-white plane: One step forward, nothing in my future. One step backward, blizzards in my past. Custody, ground made of paper so thin, with every step, life crumples under my feet.